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I like pissing in the wind, while I monkey around [with you] ...

ON AIR: Walking on Air, Kerli
So it would be very trivial, for me, put me to write to the Nobel Barack Obama would be predictable and unoriginal. In any case, I had to do it several days ago: would be more sensible and I would not have seemed like a voice in the tail of a long line of dissent, more or less sarcastic. Right now, in short, it would be good for me to remain in silence to pretend nothing happened. Too bad I can not do it right. When was that? Friday? Well, Friday I was at the computer with the TV on next to me: I was watching a news - can not remember which, probably sz 5 - and I overheard the news of the Nobel. I stood for a moment, impassive. Then I tied up, I turned my face and I turned up the volume to maximum: the committee responsible to buckle moneyed prizes to those who have been able to promote and establish a peaceful environment has decided to award the Nobel Peace Prize to Barack Obama. Not I'm here to list all the reasons why the news has left me ta bases, mostly because it seems to me even paradoxical: I would rather turn the situation around and get to know the underlying reasons and I totally dark which led the Board of Oslo to take this convoluted decision. Obama is not that I dislike: Certainly not. And how could the rest? It 's so good - or maybe it's his entourage to be very, very good - to manage its image, to express themselves and be worshiped by the masses euphoric, waiting for the new messiah. But I swear: I do not dislike Obama. But the Nobel Peace Prize no, holy God. Why? All his intentions were beautifully suspended in the air: wonderful words floating in the sea of \u200b\u200bthe most successful political communication. Not that they can not be realized: maybe it will, of course. We hope everyone. But expect to have - how to say - an empirical evidence? No. Why so much realism? Better a little 'healthy surrealism ... and hope that reality will not disappoint our hearts full of confident hope for a bright future, multi-ethnic and disarmed. Back when the flowers in guns but maybe this time we put them in the Kalashnikov. And smile to the new world, which is actually identical to the old one. But with Obama.
However, the more appalled and - frankly - concerned by the award of this prize should be awarded the distinguished precisely: the expectations were already very high, and this is a fact, but the Nobel Prize has done nothing to constrain Obama within the confines of a narrow and formalissimi engagement with the world. Now Obama can no longer hold back from paying the bill for a solemn promise that he signed as a guarantee giving the very existence [and also be color]: from now on will no longer suffice. I hope.
change the subject, I have the interview Thursday, the latest evidence, to enter the Luiss School of Journalism. I would say that I prefer not to express myself further on: after the written evidence we were in 60 and now it will take 30 for which no is so unlikely that I can do it. Apart from the fact that the interview is sure to be funny, since I have not the faintest idea of \u200b\u200bwhat will be the topic of conversation. But the truth is that I do not care. In fact, maybe I'd rather not go: I would prefer to follow the specialist and postpone the decision until later. The journalism schools are unique and specific, targeted towards a single career [not easy, however,] I am not so sure that it is the right one for me. I would like other options, maybe. Or maybe it's just that I think ultimately a choice too. I do not know. I think I'll wait the final result and then decide. For now I I'm good and quiet in the hall of my future.
changing speech yet, I would like to advertise in Via Boncompagni AIED clinic in Rome is a welcoming place, clean, friendly people where they work and prepared. And, since some controls are not exactly pleasant [at least for me: the world is beautiful because it is different, they tell me], I would say that details are not negligible.
Then, other communication service: Flower, where have you gone? Revealed, if you please, and let me know how it's going to Palermo.
I mean what else? That will not sleep tonight beside me? Now I told you. Here, do not sleep next to me. And I will not be safe.

Little creepy girl with her little creepy face.

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hear how the Sonene summir!

hear how the Sonene summir!

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Calabria, the Mediterranean to discover [toxic treats at will, for fans of the genre] ... Calabria makes me

ON AIR: Daniel, Bat for Lashes
It 'a lot' that I do not write anything and in truth I have no intention of reporting anything. My summer was great, nice, as far as I speak in this unusual way of my holiday: Instead, this year, I was fine. Maybe because I separated from him for just a couple of weeks ... Many might find it a little 'seedy what I say, the fact that my welfare is chained to the presence of others, but I'll tell you anyway: I do not give a damn's never, not even when I was bad and angry, let alone now.
I am writing, however, for other reasons. Why do I need to set some important points and, above all, my final disillusionment with journalism and his world during this summer, we saw and heard things beyond any wildest imagination. And yesterday Victor Felts has dealt the final blow to my naive faith nell'antipatia catastrophically as solid and constructive proof of a lucid journalism, cynical and moderately healthy. I am forced to admit that Indro Montanelli was almost the one and only, and behind him, the desert. Alas.
Again, I really wanted to express my extreme pride for the proclamation of the new Miss Italy: Calabria is a girl who - to learn - is hoping to represent the whole of Calabria and Italy. In this regard, I would like to escape from this his intent, given while he was obviously inspired by the sacred fire of neuronal emptiness.
This morning I read in the Corriere della Sera a fine article by Maria Laura Rodotà . I recommend it highly to anyone who finds what I wrote above slightly resentful: the problem is much broader.
I wanted, then, return the best film critic of the century: call it self-evident and surgical efficacy but disproportionate. But you have to frame the scene and specify the particular film in question: Zabriskie Point by Michelangelo Antonioni. We watched, He and I, half asleep, the historic sex scene in the land of the canyon. Apart from the concerns that pervaded the air, as we were silent, but the climax was reached when he, with a voice thick with sleep, gives the following - brilliant - the sequence of words: "Yeah, you know the sand ass ...". I would say that, in principle, equivalent to "The Battleship Potemkin is a crazy piece of shit." Because even Zabriskie Point is, fatevene a reason.
'll never be apart.

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hydrophobic or as it's never too early to make weapons and luggage ...

ON AIR: Cu'mme, Mia Martini feat. Roberto Murolo
Yesterday morning I did a reflection of more than negligible. I had just woken up, it was about ten o'clock and was dragging down the hall trying to open his eyes for good. There is a premise to be done before continuing the story: I have been here in Cosenza, I always wake up in a foul mood and the situation tends to worsen dramatically with the anxiety of the morning chatting [chat early in the morning?!] In my - and especially my father - can not break free. Well, yesterday morning I was already preparing to come to terms with this painful reality when I heard a high volume of my tv, I opened the door ajar, and I found my mother's intent to sweat on the treadmill [have one in my bedroom and mother uses it while watching TV, of course-volume breaks eardrums because we do not already heard: imagine that thing with the hellish mess that is in the background]. But the point is not that. The point is that he was watching a movie, that I do not quite remember the title or maybe - just - I have not even bothered to learn about them. In short, this film was one of those bad movies, in fact, not bad in the aesthetic sense of the term or concept. No, it is one of those movies that no one would ever feel the need here is: one of those comedies in pink sauce, pseudo-funny, full of paaesaggi romantic comedy situations that someone would judge, sexual misunderstandings [yes, are still in fashion] and women Stuffed [I would say, filled] dignity [to be clear, those who give up slap, stop unwanted conversations left the room and find men willing to get totally ridiculous for them: no, not a science fiction movie or at least I do not think]. But arriving at the essence of the matter: these films often tend to result in a rather handsome man, also very caring person, who was abandoned at the altar as a salted codfish. So I open a parenthesis: the dignity of women filled two are WONDERFUL men willing to marry them or otherwise to engage in a serious relationship with them and, in principle, Massine, tend to choose the most asshole hoping for his miraculous redemption sentimental. Here, get to the point, because nobody has yet thought to analyze the views of that poor man? Why was not yet made a film about the tragic history of this unfortunate man full of emotional power that is taken for a ride all the time [the kisses, promises of eternal love, the brillocchio that gave what they thought was his her ... bullshit] until the final abandonment, after the money and invested with in the ceremony [which, theoretically, should be paid by the bride's father, rather pissed off too vain to put on the casino], in a house in a typically charming and seemingly perfect relationship. Well, what is the reason for this inexcusable gap in World filmography? Perhaps because that individual is not a nerd nerd, and therefore not worth making films or television series about him, perhaps because it was impossible to categorize his story in any way except as a drama without reasonable grounds socio-cultural perhaps because you should not pay too much attention to the fact that absolute perfection can be abandoned at the altar [in fact, usually, the guy is perfect but rather mediocre], perhaps because they do not give a fuck about anybody. And in fact, come to think, do not give a shit about anything to me either. And I do not see why I should be a lawyer of lost causes ... Above all, I do not feel any empathy for the poor fellow, I must not.
Well, it's too hot to continue writing. Especially since I do not have much to say and I'm afraid of not being able to hide it.
You know how I feel? Like a miniature Lady [still more mignon of the real me, I mean] that walks on a calendar written in huge red letters and drag this giant pencil, marking with a cross every day passing with a slowness exhausting. Through Sunday. And then to 14. And then the 24. And then at 31.
I was once an incredibly patient person. But I'm getting old.
Ah comme if it is'.